


Two

by chopslouey



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Comfort, Eating Disorder, M/M, Self Harm, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:15:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chopslouey/pseuds/chopslouey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s frustrated, he’s enraged, and he’s violent. He hates this. He hates himself. He hates his stomach and his thighs and his face and his eyes don’t look like Harry’s and he hates them. He hates that Harry doesn’t know that he’s falling apart at the seams, he hates that he’s too weak to fix himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two

Two. 

Knees wrapped desperately around the base of the sleek toilet and neck craned deep into the bowl, he weakly slips two slender fingers past his lips and tickles the back of his throat where he knows the skin is most raw. Shaking with distraught sobs, his dull fingernails press as far into his mouth as they could reach until he’s overcome with the familiar churning of his stomach. His lips curl into a sad smile as the burning bile rises in his chest. With a single hack, he finally coaxes the contents of his dinner from inside his body to inside the toilet. Louis reaches a hand out to grab the plastic cup next to his knee and quickly downs the cold water that filled it. Exhausted, he stares at the lifted lid of the toilet, drowsily bringing his fingers up to his parted lips again. He hesitates before thrusting them in, though, when the first tear trickles down his cheek and drips off his chin. Louis glares at the two fingers positioned in front of him with wet, blue eyes. They were mocking him, pointed towards his face to rightfully accuse him of being broken. As if to silence them, he shoves them past his teeth and forces himself to throw up until the only thing that came from his mouth is a steady stream of saliva. Satisfied with his exhausting work, Louis flushes the toilet and closes the lid.  
He pulls himself into a standing position and yanks at the faucet, squirting a puddle of soap into the palm of his hand. He rinses his hands, especially the two fingers on his right, and splashes his face. Louis digs around in a messy cabinet for his toothbrush and hastily scrubs the taste out of his mouth, finishing off the cleansing process with mouthwash to rid the sour stench. He slides his tongue over the roof of his mouth and over the rigid tops of his molars, happy to no longer feel the gritty substances from his stomach. Finally, finally, he dares to look at himself in the mirror. He knows better than to lift the hem of his shirt and examine the swell of his abdomen. So instead, he focuses on assessing his face, which was much more tolerable. He stares into his reflection’s eyes and decides that he might like the color of them. They aren’t as big and round as Harry’s, nor the same mesmerizing shade of green that captivated anyone who saw them, no. No, Louis had already accepted that. His eyes are smaller and bluer, but somewhere along the way Louis had learned to appreciate them. To an extent.  
After he’s collected himself and practiced his smile in the mirror, Louis opens the bathroom door and slides out, popping his knuckles as he makes his way into the living room of the apartment. He had just settled into the corner of the couch with a football magazine when the front door starts to rattle and Harry slips in, back from his run.  
“How was it?” Louis asks as he skims the passages on the slick pages, voice slightly raspy. His throat burns with each word, but Louis is tough. Louis is very tough.  
“Sidewalk’s icy,” Harry breathes, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead. He’s still panting, slightly out of breath from the exercise as he kicks off his neon sneakers by the door.  
“I fixed you a water in the kitchen, next to the sink.” Louis replies helpfully, diverting his gaze from Harry’s dripping body when he feels a strong blush cloud his cheeks. Harry’s flushed face cracks into the world’s biggest smile, white teeth flashing against his recently bronzed skin as he gallops behind the couch and grips Louis’ head with sweaty hands. Harry tilts Louis’ head back and places a sloppy kiss to his forehead. Chin rested on Louis’ shoulder, he mumbles a grateful thank you into the soft skin above his collarbone. Louis smiles widely and leans his cheek against Harry’s pulsing temple. “You hear about Beckham retiring? I sulked for an hour when I heard the news.” Louis comments in a light voice as Harry reads the article over his shoulder.  
“What a shame! He was my favorite, such a legend.” Harry responds, retracting himself from Louis’ body to find the bottle of water waiting for him in the kitchen. He slurps the liquid noisily until every last drop is gone before he peeks around the corner. “I’m going to hop in the shower, then we’ll crawl into bed, okay?” Harry confirms, and Louis nods his head eagerly, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table and nabbing a blanket from the love seat before trudging into their room. He slides in his socks down the wooden hallway, chuckling under his breath as his feet jerk in every direction. He’s no longer laughing when he loses control and slams his big toe into the wall, falling to the ground in front of the bathroom and cursing profusely under his breath. Finding himself too lazy to get back on his feet, Louis is careful to keep his stomach covered as he stretches out on the floor and passes time making shapes out of the grooves in the ceiling. He’s just finished outlining an alien spacecraft when Harry emerges from the bathroom in only a pair of black boxers. Louis wants to cry because it’s just not fair. The steam from Harry’s lengthy shower spills out of the room and heats Louis’ golden skin.  
“Why’re you camped out in the hallway?” Harry asks with wide eyes and raised brows, hands tucked away behind him. It takes Louis a few rattled seconds to divert his eyes from the black ink on Harry’s exposed torso and answer.  
“I’m making an alien invasion, why else.” He deadpans, turning his head away from Harry’s glistening body to try and find the ship he’d imagined seconds before. Harry lets out an amused chuckle, but doesn’t question Louis’ strange explanation.  
“Of course, I should’ve known.” Harry jokes, dipping down to rip the blanket out from under Louis’ back and drag it into the room behind him. Louis scowls at the curly haired boy as he disappeared into the room with the blanket, rolling up off the ground to retrieve it. Harry has thrown Louis’ beloved blanket into the far corner of their room and is pulling back the comforter on the large bed when Louis walks through the doorway.  
“If you’re going to reduce our cover count, at least turn up the heater.” Louis reprimands as he dances into a thin sweater, always cold. He hasn’t quite decided if the chill that follows him around is from the apartment or is just a side effect of being defective, but either way he bundles up. He is completely and utterly baffled by Harry’s lack of clothing during the coldest month of the year, but Louis knows it’s because Harry’s confident, and confident people must never get cold.  
“A good cuddle would warm me right up.” Harry hints, climbing into bed and punching at his pillow until it’s deemed suitable to sleep on. Louis rolls his eyes but flips off the light switch and fumbles in the darkness to reach the bed. He finds his way to the mattress without hitting his sore toe on the bedpost, as he usually does, and situates himself under the blankets. Louis immediately reaches out for Harry, grabbing him around the waist and pulling the taller body into his smaller frame, tucking his head under Harry’s chin. Confident people also make really good heaters. Harry returns the embrace, slotting their legs together and hooking his ankles around Louis’ calves. Intertwined under the thick layer of covers, the two are quickly warmed by the body heat they’ve trapped between themselves. In the quiet moments that follow, Harry becomes quite frustrated with the fuzzy layer of clothing separating his hands, yet again, from Louis’ skin. “Take the sweater off, Lou.” Harry suggests in a soft voice, ignoring the way Louis’ muscles tense noticeably at his words. Louis knows he can’t take off the sweater. He knows what Harry will think when he sees him, when he reaches out to touch Louis and feels how soft he is. “Louis.” Harry insists, a hint of pleading in his voice. Louis’s throat stings with the thought of Harry seeing, feeling.  
“M’cold.” Louis lies because it’s easier than telling the truth, less embarrassing.  
“I’ll keep you warm.” Harry promises, becoming impatient with the lack of skin he’s come in contact with. He aches to trace the dips and curves of Louis’ body, to uncover the wonderland hidden in a sweater two sizes too large. Harry’s large hands drop from Louis’s back and grip his hips underneath the shirt, earning a small gasp from Louis. Harry feels Louis twitch back, hands grabbing at Harry’s wrists frantically.  
“Harry stop.” Louis commands forcefully, voice breaking and ruining the intensity of his order.  
“Why?” Harry speaks, louder than he intends to, hands still firmly squeezing Louis’ exposed skin. Louis gulps down his answer. No. He will not crack in front of Harry like this. Louis has spent an awful long time blocking off this part of him, and for a good reason. “Why can’t I touch you?” Harry asks, the power behind his voice strong enough to make Louis consider answering truthfully. He doesn’t of course.  
“You can!” Louis defends quietly, well aware he’s been backed into a corner with nowhere to run. Harry must refrain himself from shouting out bull, because no, Harry cannot touch Louis like he wants to. Louis has restricted Harry from the very start, doing anything he can to keep Harry’s hands off his midsection. Harry’s lusted for the heat Louis’ skin radiates for years and he’s brutally denied access every time and Harry just wants to know why.  
“No I can’t, Lou.” Harry means to come off angry and irritated but his words are coated with sadness. “You won’t let me.” Louis knows Harry’s right. But Harry doesn’t get it; he doesn’t want to touch Louis. He’s going to graze his fingers over Louis’ protruding tummy he’s developed and he’s going to be disgusted and he’s going to leave. He’s going to see that Louis’ body isn’t sculpted and broad like Harry’s is, that he’s too soft and small. Louis knows he can’t let that happen. “Please. I won’t hurt you, I’ll always take care of you.” That’s not what Louis is worried about, though; Harry’s always had gentle hands and gentle intentions. Louis begins to shake his head because Harry has it all wrong, but Harry’s fingers surface from under the sweater to lift Louis’ chin up and stop the motion. “Let me take care of you.” Harry whispers, leaning in tentatively and brushing his lips across Louis’, waiting for Louis to swat him away. When Harry doesn’t hear an objection, he closes his full lips on Louis’ thin bottom lip and begs him to respond. His touch is so soft, so tender and subdued that it has Louis gasping for breath. His throat sears as hot air is rushed in and out, the blistered skin sizzling in protest.  
Louis ignores the flames lapping at his sore throat as he opens his mouth and delicately kisses Harry back, fingers playing with the curls that cover Harry’s ears. This is how Louis needs to be handled. He needs Harry to be safe and tranquil, to kiss him at a passionately slow pace, to taste him and take his time with him, not to touch and grip and squeeze areas that Louis isn’t comfortable with. Harry’s lips come harder and harder as the kiss furthers though, his tongue threatening to make an appearance. “Slow,” Louis sighs, and Harry instantly lets up, softening his touch and lengthening the contact, determined to keep his lips on Louis’ for as long as possible.  
Eventually, the fingers that were tugging lightly at his curls falter to a stop and fall limply onto Harry’s shoulders. Harry finishes the kiss and pulls back carefully, fond eyes taking in Louis’ tired features; he looks like a child with his droopy eyelids and parted strawberry lips. “Are you tired?” Harry whispers as he threads Louis’ thin hair between his long fingers. Louis nods half-heartedly, head spinning and lips buzzing. Louis curls himself into a loose ball and folds into Harry’s body, wrapping his arms around Harry’s narrow waist.  
“I love you, Harry.” Louis mutters in a low voice and inhales heavily, preparing to fall asleep with his nose burrowed in Harry’s smooth chest.  
“I love you, Louis.” Harry extends his body and enfolds Louis in a protective shell, thick biceps pressed against his thin shoulders. Louis hums some kind of positive response before drifting off, content with the idea that he had won tonight. 

\------------------------------------

Louis needs to leave. It’s been ten minutes, almost fifteen, and he’s still hunched over the kitchen table, pretending to consume the brilliant dinner Harry has prepared for the two of them. Not much of the food has actually made it into Louis’ mouth. A few clumps of meat have made their way to the napkin spread across his lap, a bite of bread crumbled and scattered across the plate. To the normal eye, to Harry’s eye, it looks like Louis has eaten over half his meal. He’s done a very good job covering himself tonight, but under Harry’s watchful gaze, Louis needed to eat something. He’s had too much, though. He could feel his stomach twist around itself, digesting the abnormal amount of food he’s swallowed. He doesn’t have much time left. He clears his throat to satisfy that familiar itchy feeling and stiffly places his fork on the table next to his plate. Harry’s beautiful green eyes meet Louis’ blue ones with a questioning gleam. Louis really wishes Harry would stop asking questions when Louis obviously doesn’t want to answer them.  
“I’m going to go shower.” Louis announces and slides his chair back, glancing at the digital clock on the oven. He knows it’s out of his routine to shower in the evenings but he needs to get to the bathroom. Harry doesn’t speak, but turns to watch Louis rush off down the hall, a frown evident on his face. Louis bursts into the bathroom, trying hard not to slam the door behind him. His small fingers punch the light switch on, eyes cast downward until he passes the mirror. As he drops to his knees in front of the toilet, he extends his arm into the tub and turns the shower on full blast. The sound should be enough to mask the heaving, if Louis is quiet. He’s already crying as he lifts the toilet lid, but it doesn’t really matter. He grips the toilet seat shakily with his left hand and closes the right into a fist, save his pointer and middle finger. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t listen to the voices in his head. He simply plunges those two fingers farther down his throat than he’s ever dared to reach before, scraping the sides of his throat on his way down. It hurts. It hurts so badly, but he cannot stop, because he’s resentful. He’s no longer sad, or upset, or weary. He’s frustrated, he’s enraged, and he’s violent. He hates this. He hates himself. He hates his stomach and his thighs and his face and his eyes don’t look like Harry’s and he hates them. He hates that Harry doesn’t know that he’s falling apart at the seams, he hates that he’s too weak to fix himself. But when he scratches at his throat and forces himself to gag, not enough comes out and he’s never cried harder. He’s too late.  
He tickles again, rougher this time, and he coughs. Loud. He coughs so loud he thinks his throat is bleeding. He reaches down with both hands to squeeze his stomach, hard. So hard that he thinks there will be bruises in the morning. He wheezes and chokes with his head hanging over the toilet, forehead dripping with sweat and eyes flooded. He hates the sound he makes when he cries more than anything, because it’s pathetic. He’s so pathetic. Harry wants to touch him and hold him and feel his skin and cuddle him and wrap his hands around his waist and Louis can’t even let him. He doesn’t let Harry touch him so he sits on the cold tile in the bathroom, puking his sorrows into a toilet like it’ll fix everything. Pathetic.  
Louis is bent over, using all the strength he can muster to empty his stomach and it’s not working. He’s practically shoved his whole hand inside of his mouth, fingers unable to go any further. The meal has already been digested. He’s dry-heaving, rubbing his throat raw, choking on saliva and tears. He knows he’s being loud, louder than the noise of the shower, loud enough for Harry to hear him. Yet he doesn’t stop. Maybe this is where he’ll die, slumped over a toilet with a dry throat and empty lungs. Maybe the thought doesn’t bother him. 

And then there are hands. Two lanky hands all over him, gripping his shoulders, his neck, his arms, pulling his right hand out of his mouth and shutting the lid on the toilet. Hands pushing his hair off his sticky forehead and unsuccessfully wiping the tears from his face. Louis’ shaking body is pried from the toilet by these two hands and engulfed between two arms, head pressed against a firm chest.  
“No, no, no, baby.” Harry is crying into Louis’ hair, clutching him tightly, trying to stop the terrifying tremors racking Louis’s body. Harry isn’t confused anymore. He knows now, as Louis drenches his shirt and coughs into his chest, why all the sweaters. Why all the blankets. Why all the arguments like last night’s. He just doesn’t know how he’s missed it all this time.  
Louis tries to speak, but his stuttering voice comes out a desolate croak. Harry shushes him, burying his nose in his feathery hair, rocking their two bodies back and forth quicker than he means to. How long has Louis put up this act? How many full stomachs has Louis feigned? How many times has he tortured himself in this bathroom when Harry wasn’t home? Harry can feel his heart shatter into a million sharp pieces, cutting up his insides as it breaks. His Louis. His Louis sticks his fingers down his throat because he doesn’t think he’s good enough. His Louis is good enough, though. His Louis is everything to him, he always has been and nothing’s changed. His Louis is perfect, more perfect than anything Harry’s ever had the joy of calling his own, more perfect than he can comprehend.  
The steam from the piping shower behind them helps to sooth Louis’ galled throat as the two cry into each other, and his heart-wrenching sobs have lost their overwhelming power. Louis opens his mouth to speak again, and Harry lets him put his words together. He trips over his tongue, voice wavering, but he regains enough control to whisper.  
“I’m sorry,” Harry doesn’t think Louis needs to apologize, but he’s stopped trembling so Harry doesn’t contradict.  
“It’s over now, everything-“  
“I’m disgusting.” Harry stops breathing. He becomes acutely aware of his hands clenching Louis’ hips but he refuses to reposition.  
“No.” Harry almost shouts, making Louis jump and startling himself. “No you’re not. You’re beautiful, every single inch of you.” Louis doesn’t interrupt, possibly because he can’t find the breath he needs to speak up. “I love everything about you. Everything.” He repeats for good measure, craning his neck to meet Louis’ eyes. Louis is hesitant to look up, but he does and there’s a hint of hope hidden deep in the blue. It is replaced with a sliver of fear when Harry slides a hand to the center of Louis’ tummy and holds it there, waiting for it to be knocked away. It isn’t. “I love this.” Harry says, referring to the skin his hand finally gets to feel. “I love your eyes.” He says, observant of how Louis looks away for a split second, bringing the hope back when he makes eye contact again. “I love that you’re mine, and that I don’t have to share you with anyone else.” Harry is the first to stretch his glorious lips into a smile, and his heart flutters wildly in his chest when the corners of Louis’ mouth curl up slightly.  
“I love you for stopping me.” Louis says, partly because he feels obliged to contribute to the conversation but mostly because he means it. “And for not leaving.” Harry doesn’t have a clue why he would ever leave, but he knew Louis was being serious with him and he respected that. “And…” Louis stopped to think about what he was going to say. “And I love you, period.” He repeats, thinking he doesn’t need a third reason. He just loves Harry.  
“Let’s go to sleep.” Harry nods, reaching behind him and shutting off the shower. Louis sucks in a deep breath and shudders as he lets it out as he allows Harry to help him stand. He tells Harry he’d like to brush his teeth and wash his hands, so Harry leans against the counter and watches him clean up. Louis does as he always does and looks himself in the eyes, deciding whether he likes them or not. This time, he decides that he does. Harry winds his fingers through Louis’ and leads him into the bed, swaddling him in blankets only to have Louis shake his head and push them down to his waist. Smiling as he does so, Louis grips the bottom of his long-sleeved top and pulls it over his head. He’s surprised that Harry’s eyes are still watching his face when he drops the sweater over the edge of the bed. Harry must notice the questioning expression on his face, and is more than happy to supply the answers to the questions for a change.  
“It’s not about your body, Louis.” Louis flings himself on top of Harry, rolling him onto his back and gripping his ears under his abundant hair. Bare chest to bare chest for the first time in two years, Louis kisses Harry with everything he has and doesn’t even flinch when Harry’s fingers walk themselves down his back and rest in the arches of his hips.  
“You’re right.” Because he is.


End file.
